


Sherlock Keeps a Blog

by wendymarlowe



Series: John and Sherlock's Kinky First Times [39]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Artist!Sherlock, Blogger Sherlock Holmes, M/M, PW(much)P, Really just an excuse for porn though, Suit Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-08
Updated: 2019-02-26
Packaged: 2019-07-08 15:01:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15932825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendymarlowe/pseuds/wendymarlowe
Summary: “Found your blog this morning.”Sherlock froze momentarily, midway through taking off his coat and scarf, but he covered his reaction well. “The Science of Deduction has hardly ever been a secret,” he said.“Not that one. That one you’ve told me about. I’m talking about the one you started on Tumblr almost two years ago. The one where you go by ‘CaptainWatsonsFirstMate.”[Sherlock keeps a secret porn blog imagining him and John in several interesting scenarios. John approves.](Part of my "John and Sherlock's Kinky First Times" series of shorts, all revolving around the same basic theme of "John and Sherlock get sexy for the first time and also discover some kinky stuff about each other.")





	1. Chapter 1

“Found your blog this morning.”

Sherlock froze momentarily, midway through taking off his coat and scarf, but he covered his reaction well. “The Science of Deduction has hardly ever been a secret,” he said.

“Mmmm.” John closed his laptop and leaned back in his chair. “Not that one. _That_ one you’ve told me about. I’m talking about the one you started on Tumblr almost two years ago. The one about us.”

Sherlock very slowly closed the door, then turned around to face John. His expression was carefully blank. “I don’t know what you mean.”

God, he couldn’t have looked more guilty if he tried. Maybe everyone else tended to buy Sherlock’s it’s-not-me act, but John liked to think he knew Sherlock too well for that. Although apparently he didn’t know Sherlock well enough, if what the Tumblr blog said was true. “I mean the one where you go by ‘CaptainWatsonsFirstMate,” John said. 

There was a long moment where they both stared at each other. Sherlock looked away first. “That does sound like a blog name I would choose,” he mumbled. “Probably someone pretending to--”

“You’re fucking mental if you don’t think I can recognize your handwriting, mate.”

Sherlock blanched.

“I mean,” John added, “I recognize your writing style too, but the art pretty much cinched it. All those careful captions and the anatomically accurate poses. Your research journals were pretty much all I had left of _you_ while I thought you were dead--I probably know your handwriting better than my own, these days.”

He waited a minute, expecting Sherlock to deny any knowledge of the blog again, but it was apparently one of the rare times the consulting detective was struck entirely speechless. Sherlock opened and closed his mouth a few times, but nothing came out.

“Hadn’t seen _those_ particular drawings before, though.” Sherlock’s old journals had been crammed full of all sorts of esoteric “experiments,” neat tables of data alongside carefully labeled pencil sketches, but none of them even mentioned John other than as an unnamed test subject. (His identity was obvious, since Sherlock only had one flatmate to be experimenting on, but Sherlock was oddly professional even in his own private notes.) The blog, on the other hand...

John cleared his throat. “You want to talk about it?”

Sherlock shook his head. “I’d rather you delete the entire thing.”

“Truly?” John sat up straight and motioned for Sherlock to sit in his own chair opposite. Sherlock crossed the room warily, dropping into his seat with none of his usual boneless sprawl. “Because I can’t simply make it vanish from my brain or whatever like you do, but if you’d rather just stay friends I can accept that. I’d be _disappointed_ , but I’d accept it.”

Sherlock froze for the second time in as many minutes.

And of _course_ this had to all be up to John. Because talking about things - important things, emotional things--was never going to be Sherlock’s forte. He blathered on about inconsequential trivia all the time, but give him an honest-to-goodness emotion and he never knew how to handle it. And that was okay, it was fine, because Sherlock was back from being dead and Mary was finally gone and John felt a bit selfish being all smug he had Sherlock to himself again, but only a little tiny bit. Because Sherlock was worth having, damn it. Sex or no.

“If you _didn’t_ want me to pretend I never saw it, though,” John said, “that’s a conversation we could have. If you’re ever interested.”

A long silence. Then… “You’re not angry,” Sherlock said slowly. “John, why are you not angry?”

“I’ve had a lot of time to think.”

Sherlock frowned. “You said you found it this morning.”

“Just over _two years_ to think, actually,” John said.

Sherlock’s eyes went a bit wider, but he nodded. They’d hashed out the anger and recriminations and blame and guilt about his fake death over the first several weeks once he returned to London, and they both had eventually fallen into a holding pattern of cautious optimism. John had to keep reminding himself Sherlock was _back_ and what complaints could he have that would possibly compete with that? Sherlock was jumpier and quieter than he had been two years previously, but he also allowed John’s fussing with more appreciation than dismissal. It was a good change.

And a long time coming.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “John, I…” He trailed off and looked away. “I missed you,” he finally declared.

“I know.” God, it was obvious - Sherlock had spent the last two years at sixes and sevens just as much as John had. “I also couldn’t help but notice that you were missing something we never actually did, back then. I mean, I knew you could draw and you can do that… thing… where you observe everything about me all at once, but I didn’t know you’d been _watching._ Which, for the record--it’s fine.”

Sherlock blinked. “Really?”

“Really.” John patted the arm of his chair and popped his laptop back open. “C’mere and sit. Let me show you one of my favorites and tell you how sexy I find you.”

A long pause, but eventually Sherlock visibly swallowed and approached to sit gingerly on the arm of John’s chair. The height difference would have been humorous if he hadn’t also been drooping like a puppy expecting to be scolded. “I couldn’t help it,” he murmured. “Two years and I missed you like I’d miss a limb. Or my soul, if those were to exist. I started out drawing you whenever I could, to remind myself I wasn’t forgetting even the smallest detail, but then…”

“Then you started working off inference instead of direct observation.” John scrolled down the blog, past several close-up sketches of body parts, and stopped at the one he’d had a long wank to that morning. The one showing the two of them from the neck down, John’s shoulder scar one hundred percent accurate as if Sherlock were copying directly from the medical chart. If that hadn’t proved the artist had to be Sherlock, the Union Jack pillow on the carefully rendered sofa would have given it away even though the drawing was in grey-and-white pencil. “Only you could go two years and still remember where all my moles are,” John said. “You got the one on the back of my neck, the one under my left rib, the wonky barely-there scar on my hip from when I was eleven. I didn’t know about the birthmark on your inguinal crease, though. And you did get a _few_ things wrong.”

Sherlock went from gazing dazedly at the laptop screen to focused on John’s face in a nanosecond. He didn’t say anything, but his reflexive annoyance at getting something--anything--wrong made John want to laugh. Laughter would have been Sherlock’s cue to flee to his room, though, so John forced his facial muscles to stay where they were.

John held Sherlock’s eye a moment longer, then pointedly wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s skinny waist and placed a kiss to the edge of his ribcage. “Want to see the real thing?”

Sherlock went totally still.

He didn’t pull away, though, so John pulled him closer and looked up, willing him to see the sincerity in his eyes. “In case I’m being too subtle,” he added, “I’m asking you this. Sherlock Holmes, it’s been too damn long and it’s time I got my head out of my arse about this. Us. Will you come to bed with me?”

One moment Sherlock was perched on the arm of John’s chair, the next he’d practically melted into John’s lap and had their foreheads pressed tightly together. John shifted him until the armful of consulting detective was within easier snogging range, then palmed the back of Sherlock’s neck and urged him down for a series of light, tender kisses which slowly transformed into open-mouthed _want._ Sherlock’s breath was hot against John’s face every time they broke for air and there was nothing John wanted more than to keep him there forever.

Sherlock wriggled, his lush bum pressing against John’s hopeful erection.

Right. _Almost_ nothing.

“John,” Sherlock breathed. “Will you--can I--”

“God, yes.”

Sherlock immediately twisted himself so he was straddling John’s thighs and could insinuate his hands up under the hem of John’s jumper. John still had a button-down and a vest on underneath, so they were still nowhere near skin-to-skin contact, but Sherlock shivered and hunched closer anyway. “I ought to tell you,” Sherlock mumbled against John’s temple, “it’s been a long time for me. Since… this. Sex. I’m afraid I won’t--”

“It is scientifically impossible for this not to be amazing, Sherlock,” John assured him. “No matter what we do or don’t do. But either you’re too tall or I’m too short for us to properly bugger each other in this chair, and I for one would like to move to my bed so we can see what we’re doing and can take our time. You do want to see for real, right?”

“Just see?”

John kissed him on the tip of the nose. “Berk. See and touch and taste and feel and bloody well smell, all right? Does that work for you?”

Sherlock was up and tugging at John’s arm within an instant. “My bed’s bigger,” he declared while attempting to haul John toward the stairs, “but yours smells like you.”

John snagged the laptop before following. Maybe they’d have time for some post-coital “brilliant!”s and “amazing!”s once they could both think straight. Or bent, as the case may be.


	2. Chapter 2

“Off. Off!” Sherlock was tugging at John’s jumper before they were even fully in John’s bedroom. “Hurry it up already!”

“Twat.” John tapped the tip of Sherlock’s nose--something which left his best friend gawping and blinking and no longer attempting to maul John’s overclothes--and locked the door behind them. “Patience is a virtue, you know, and I for one wouldn’t like Mrs. Hudson to walk in on us. Besides, don’t you want to watch me strip?”

Sherlock’s train of thought completely jumped the tracks at that, something which happened rarely but John always recognized the signs for. Sherlock cleared his throat and attempted a smooth recovery. “Oh, yes,” he croaked. “That. That’s a good thing. To do.”

“And then I imagine I’d rather enjoy undressing you too. Up close, where I can inspect you at my leisure.”

“Also… good?”

John grinned and towed Sherlock over to the bed, then shoved him lightly so he toppled over onto it. Sherlock’s long limbs immediately flowed like a liquid--or a cat’s--to occupy the empty space in the sprawl-iest possible way. His gaze was still sharp, though, and got sharper when John fingered the button of his trousers.

“I’d say not to expect too much,” John warned him, “but I figure if you already know my body well enough to draw me that accurately I’m not going to be surprising you here. Still, it’s been a while for me too.”

“Undressing for a man?”

“For anyone,” John said simply. “Nobody since Mary, and that was more than a year ago. Even then, I suspect I wasn’t at my best because part of me knew she wasn’t going to be a good enough substitute for you.” In one movement, he pulled his jumper off over his head and tossed it toward the laundry bin in the corner. This was not going to be a graceful seduction, but then Sherlock was never one to be dazzled by a big song and dance about anything else. Why would sex be different? “I’m sorry it took me so long to realize the truth, by the way.”

Sherlock’s gaze didn’t leave where John’s fingers were slowly undoing his button-down. “It’s mutual,” he murmured absently. “I’ve had sexual liaisons in the past, in my early twenties, but it never seemed worth all the bother.”

“Mmmm.” John undid the last button and let the two halves of his shirt droop to either side of his torso. Sherlock was so intent… John strode forward and kissed him soundly before starting on the cuffs. “I’m glad you picked me to fixate on, then. You know I’d be terribly jealous, otherwise.”

“You… _oh!”_ He lit up. “You would be, wouldn’t you. Interesting!”

John rolled his eyes. “Berk. But here I’m halfway done and I haven’t attempted a striptease.” He released the last cuff and flung the shirt right at Sherlock’s face. Normally the man had excellent reflexes--John had seen him catch a thrown knife without even looking once, when it had been aimed at the back of his head--but Sherlock took the button-down to the face with a surprised grunt.

In any other situation Sherlock would have had some acerbic comment, but now he merely held the shirt to his nose and hummed. “Smells like you.” He wadded it up, then lay back down with it under his head like a pillow. “Tease away, though,” he commanded.

John peeled off his vest and made a big show of swinging his hips as he thumbed open the placket of his trousers and undid the zip. It felt cheesy, but two tours with Her Majesty’s best meant he had zero embarrassment about anyone seeing him naked. Even Sherlock. Who was clearly riveted even though his body language from the neck down was all languid indolence. John slid a hand inside his Y-fronts--his erection was no secret by now--and palmed himself for a moment. The two of them moaned in tandem.

“Yes, John, please,” Sherlock rumbled in that sexy-as-fuck voice of his. “Let me see you?”

John was already barefoot, thanks to lounging around the flat for most of the day. That made it easy to wriggle his hips a bit more and encourage his trousers to slide down a fraction. Not very far, though-- _don’t want to spoil the surprise._ He turned around, instead, and presented Sherlock with his arse as he dropped trou the rest of the way.

Sherlock made an approving noise. “You have a very nice bum,” he announced.

John looked over his shoulder and winked. “Ditto, but you knew that. Ready to see what you got wrong?”

Sherlock went from sprawled on his side to sitting up in a heartbeat.

_This is it, then._ John shucked his pants and turned around. Sherlock stared for a moment, then groaned loudly.

“John, how was I supposed to deduce _that?_ You’re not Muslim and you’re not Jewish… was it infantile phimosis? Balanitis?”

“Neither.” John wrapped his hand around the shaft of his (circumcised) cock and _damn_ , that felt good. “My mother did spend most of her childhood in New York, though, and apparently convinced my dad that American-style was the way to go. Surprise. My turn to peel you out of those sinfully gorgeous clothes, though. May I?”

“You really can’t expect me to have known, given that only around fifteen percent of British males your age have undergone circumcision and the vast majority of those belong to--”

_“Sherlock._ Shut up and let me get your bloody kit off.”

Sherlock blinked, then lay back on the bed and managed a sultry-yet-naive look. “Be my guest,” he declared. The innocent guise was belied by the massive stiffie his perfectly-tailored suit did nothing to hide. John had always wondered--idly, in an I’m-not-gay-yet way--what Sherlock looked like with his pants off. Now he was about to find out.

And actually… John mentally revised his plan of attack. Sherlock in a suit was utterly shaggable. Even when John was incandescently angry with him, he still had to admit that the man practically exuded a sexual aura. Wouldn’t it be more expedient to just… get to the good bits?

“You’re gorgeous,” John declared in a low voice, crawling onto the bed to crouch over his flatmate. “I know you’ve probably been told that a lot, by all sorts of people you aren’t interested in having sex with, but I figured you ought to hear it from me and know that I’ve added it to my dictionary of mental compliments. Alongside ‘brilliant!’ and ‘fantastic!’ and all the others that still surprise you for some reason.”

Sherlock cleared his throat. The bobbing of his Adam’s apple was the only tell that he wasn’t as composed as it seemed. “You do know you’re saying that out loud?”

“Mmmm, yes.” God, this was going to be delicious. John leaned down and kissed Sherlock slowly, leisurely, the only point of contact between them their lips. Well, that and the tip of John’s cock, occasionally brushing the waistband of Sherlock’s posh trousers. Probably leaving smears of forensic evidence here and there. _We are going to fuck this suit up_ , John told himself, _and everyone at Sherlock’s poncy dry cleaner’s will know what we’ve been up to._ Far from being a deterrent, the thought just spurred him on.

It only took a moment to undo the placket fastening Sherlock’s trousers closed. John tugged down the zip and slid his dominant hand underneath. He expected to meet smooth, warm silk, and he wasn’t disappointed--Sherlock was nearly as prissy about his underpants as he was about his sock index. John shifted his weight, peeked down--

Red. Nearly crimson. With the increase in maneuvering room, Sherlock’s erection was tenting the silk into a colorful little flag of here-I-am halfway down the black and white of Sherlock’s bespoke suit. John closed his hand around it and Sherlock gasped into the kiss.

“Now,” Sherlock rumbled. “Get it off now, want to feel you--”

“Nope.” John dropped a brief but emphatic kiss on Sherlock’s lips. “I’ve changed my mind. This time, this first time, I want to see you come undone just like this. Feels fitting, doesn’t it? I’m stripped bare and you’re all buttoned up except for the one small part you’re only willing to let me see.” He paused, then backtracked. “Err, sorry. Pretend I didn’t say ‘small’ just then. You know what I meant.”

Sherlock chuckled and _finally_ wrapped his long arms around John’s chest to embrace him properly. “John,” he murmured.

“Touch me,” John urged. He wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s silk-clad cock and massaged it gently. Sherlock’s full-body reaction was electric.

Sherlock finally touched back, then. He insinuated his hand--long fingers, dextrous, nails always impeccably smooth and manicured, and _oh fucking hell that feels amazing_ \--in between their bodies and matched his motions to John’s. Neither of them had the coordination to kiss and wank each other at the same time so John didn’t bother trying. He couldn’t even get his hand all the way around Sherlock’s shaft, not with Sherlock’s pants in the way, but hell would freeze over before John would ever complain. The litany of small, surprised noises coming from Sherlock’s lips would have been worth it even without the promise of orgasms afterward.

“You’re gorgeous,” John reiterated to the wide-eyed man below him. “Gorgeous, amazing, brilliant, fantastic, incredible, exceptional--”

The elegant grip on his own cock squeezed abruptly and then went lax as Sherlock came. The experience was everything John could have ever asked for. Sherlock’s mouth was open on a gasp, his swan-like neck on display as he arched his back. Unmistakable tremors of this self-proclaimed sociopath coming fucking _undone_ at John’s touch. Even after the aftershocks started to recede, Sherlock continued to gape at John as if he were the most marvellous puzzle on the planet. John’s cock was aching, still, but he ignored it in favor of snogging the living hell out of his flatmate.

Sherlock responded sluggishly but with increasing enthusiasm. In one smooth move he flipped them, looming over John who was now prone and more turned on than he’d ever been in his life. Turned on and a tiny bit amused because Sherlock’s curls were flattened and mussed in the front but sticking up in the back and he looked adorable and so bloody _human._ John tried not to smile.

“What?” Sherlock demanded.

“You.” He ran his non-sticky palm down Sherlock’s face. “Your hair is…”

The slow smile stealing over Sherlock’s face did nothing to dampen the effect. “Sex hair, I believe you’ve termed it,” he murmured. “When I’ve fallen asleep on the sofa while contemplating some particularly vexing problem. You like to tease me when it’s in disarray.”

“I don’t mean to _tease_ ,” John said quickly. “I like it. A lot.”

“I know.” Sherlock’s voice was even deeper than usual, if that were possible. He stepped backward off the bed, shifting from kneeling over John to standing with his legs bracketing John’s shins. “There’s something else I know, too.”

“Hmmm?” John’s cock gave a hopeful twitch.

“I posit that your _actual_ favorite drawing from my Tumblr page is this one.” He sank to his knees and tugged John forward. “The one that didn’t show whether you were circumcised or not because you had your erection all the way down my throat.”

“Oh _fuck._ ”

Sherlock shot him a wicked grin, lined himself up, and kept full eye contact as he gradually slipped his lips over the head of John’s cock. John was the one who had to end it, who had to close his eyes to avoid coming on the spot--

“No,” Sherlock demanded. “Look. Watch me. This is what you wanked to this morning; I’m sure of it.”

John didn’t even want to think about how Sherlock could have deduced that. Which was good, because he was rapidly running out of any thoughts at all the longer Sherlock kept his lips just barely touching the tip of John’s glans as he talked. He impaled himself again just as John was forced to resort to begging.

“God, please,” John panted. “Fuck, your _mouth._ I never--I always--”

He didn’t last long, not that John had any particular sense of time in that instant. Sherlock did something complicated with his tongue, a suck and a swipe and a hint of teeth all like once, and John came like a fucking rocket. That clever tongue nursed him through three, four smaller spurts before John realized he felt like someone had removed all the bones from his body and let his head crash back down onto the mattress. “Fuck,” he breathed. A moment later, Sherlock flopped down beside him.

“I give up,” John announced.

Sherlock rolled his head to the side, not bothering to exert energy either. “Hmmm?”

“When you’ve got skills like _that_ , you can do whatever experiments you want and I will never complain again. Won’t even bother trying.” He’d fucking earned it, in John’s opinion. “Christ, that was amazing.”

Sherlock raised one eyebrow. “Anything I want?”

_Berk._ John threw an arm around him and pulled his body closer. The bespoke suit was sticky with Sherlock’s come, but fuck it. John was cold and his genius flatmate was gorgeous.

“I guess,” John murmured tugging Sherlock’s duvet over the both of them, “that you’re just going to have to find out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, everyone - hope this was worth it :-)
> 
> Who all is coming to 221B Con in Atlanta this spring? I'm excited to meet all my fandom friends in person!


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